Pumpkin patch pack, p.11
Pumpkin Patch Pack, page 11
From: MAshcroft@Ashcroftmedia.com
Subject: Tick Tock… I’m coming for you.
Do you sleep well at night, Emma? I hope not.
I hope you jump at every shadow, every footstep, every knock at the door. I hope you’re constantly looking over your shoulder, wondering if today’s the day.
Because it’s coming, and when it does, you’ll remember why you belonged to me in the first place.
Every dog eventually learns to come when called.
Time to come home, pet.
-M
21
Emma
Today is the first time I’ll face a crowd without a patch since I escaped the city and discovered who these three men truly are to me.
I adjust my extra-large cozy sweater nervously. Without my usual scarf to hide the patch, my neck feels bare.
“Ready for this?” Rowan asks, appearing at my side with two travel mugs of coffee.
I accept one gratefully, “as I’ll ever be.”
His eyes search mine. “Just tell us if you need a break or feel overwhelmed.”
“I know,” I say, appreciating the concern. “I’ll be fine.”
The first visitors begin trickling in around ten. I position myself near the entrance, my phone camera ready, capturing their delighted expressions as they take in the autumn wonderland Harvest Home Farm has become. Children squeal at the sight of the hay slide, couples pose beneath the archway of cornstalks, and families hop on board a truck for a hayride.
With each passing minute, my anxiety builds. I keep waiting for that moment when an unbonded alpha catches my scent and reacts. But oddly, nothing happens. People smile, ask directions, compliment the decorations—but no one gives me a second glance.
I can’t smell them.
At least, not in the way I feared.
There’s the general human scent of bodies and perfumes and the occasional whiff of someone who needs a shower, but the distinctive alpha pheromones are muted, almost non-existent.
Even more so than before.
The extra-strength suppressants I took for years were efficient, but I could still smell the slight lingering scent of alphas.
Now it’s gone.
Confused, I make my way toward the petting zoo, where Liam is introducing children to the animals. His tall figure is unmistakable, and as I approach, his scent—bourbon and smoke—washes over me with startling clarity. He spots me immediately, his expression softening.
“How’s it going?” he asks when there’s a lull in visitors.
“Great. The suppressants are working well. But it’s strange,” I admit, lowering my voice. “I can smell you perfectly, but other alphas’ scents are nonexistent.”
Liam’s mouth quirks in that almost-smile. “Dr. Mitchell mentioned this might happen. When compatible mates find each other, their scents… adapt. Makes them less attractive to others.”
“Like biological camouflage,” I murmur, amazed.
He nods. “To anyone else, you probably just smell claimed.”
The word sends a thrill through me that I’m not ready to examine too closely. Instead, I focus on the practical implication—I’m safe.
For the first time in months, I don’t need to hide.
“Want to help with the rabbits?” Liam asks, nodding toward the pen where several children are waiting excitedly. “They respond well to you.”
For the next hour, I work alongside Liam, introducing visitors to the gentlest of the farm animals. I snap photos of children’s faces lighting up when they hold a baby bunny for the first time and of Liam patiently teaching a little boy how to approach the miniature pony without startling her. Watching his large, calloused hands move with such gentleness, his deep voice softening as he explains to the children how to respect the animals’ space, is mesmerizing.
“You’re good with them,” I tell him quietly. “The children, I mean.”
He shrugs, but I catch the pleased note in his scent. “Animals are easier,” he says. “But kids are okay. They tend to say whatever comes to mind—no filter.”
I snap a candid shot of him kneeling beside a small girl as she tentatively strokes Maple’s head. The contrast between his size and the child’s, the gentleness in his expression, captures something essential about him that you would not expect from such a large alpha.
“I should check on the other areas,” I say reluctantly after another group moves through. “Get a complete coverage of the day.”
Liam nods. “Come back if you need a break—some Maple therapy time.”
I go to the farm stand next, where Theo has drawn a crowd with his baking demonstration. He’s in his element, flour dusting his forearms as he explains the secret to perfect apple hand pies.
“And the key,” he’s saying to his rapt audience, “is keeping everything cold until the last possible moment.” He looks up, spotting me at the crowd’s edge, and his whole face brightens. “Ah! Our social media genius has arrived. Everyone smile for Instagram!”
The crowd chuckles and obliges, and I capture the moment—Theo in mid-demonstration, visitors leaning forward in anticipation, the golden-brown pies cooling on racks behind him.
“How’s it going?” he asks when the demonstration ends and people move to purchase his creations.
“Better than expected,” I admit, accepting the warm hand pie he presses into my hand. “I can smell the three of you perfectly, but no one else seems to notice me.”
Theo grins, leaning closer. “That’s because you’re ours,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver across my skin. “And everyone can tell.”
The simple statement makes my omega practically purr with satisfaction. “Want to help me sell these? I could use an assistant.”
I work the farm stand for the next hour with Theo, packaging pies, accepting payment, and chatting with customers. This partnership feels natural—he handles the baking and charm, and I manage the transactions and packaging. Between customers, I snap photos of the colorful produce displays and the rustic wooden counters laden with homemade goods.
“You’re a natural at this,” Theo says as we finish serving a large family.
“I should check on the main activities,” I say eventually. “Get some shots of the corn maze, hayrides, slides, and everything else.”
“Come back if you get hungry,” Theo says, pressing an apple cider into my hands. “I’ll save you the best ones.”
The main activity area is bustling with happy visitors.
I position myself on a hay bale, capturing the scene from different angles—children emerging triumphantly from the corn maze, others giggling down the hay slides. People are sipping hot cider while others eat Theo’s delicious baked goods. Staff in matching Harvest Home shirts guide visitors.
Rowan spots me and makes his way over, his burnt-sugar musk deepening as he nears.
“Getting good material?” he asks, settling beside me on the hay bale.
I show him some shots I’ve taken throughout the day—Liam with the animals, Theo’s baking demonstration, the general atmosphere of autumn joy.
“These are perfect,” he says with appreciation. “You capture the heart of this place.”
The compliment warms me. “Part of the job.”
“It’s more than that,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “You see the good in people. The things that make them special.”
I’m unsure how to respond to the intensity in his gaze, so I change the subject slightly. “The farm is thriving. You’ve created something really wonderful here.”
“We have,” he corrects gently. “You’re part of it now, Emma.”
Part of it.
Part of them.
We walk together through the crowds, and people naturally step aside for Rowan, responding to his alpha presence without him saying a word. Yet there’s nothing aggressive about it; he carries his authority with a confidence that commands respect rather than fear.
“How do you do that?” I ask as we reach a quieter area.
“Do what?”
“Lead without intimidating. Most alphas I’ve known use fear or dominance to get what they want, but you don’t.”
He considers my question seriously. “My father taught me that real leadership isn’t about making people smaller so you can feel bigger. It’s about helping others recognize their own strengths.” He glances at me. “That’s what we try to do here—create a place where everyone feels valued, even the four-legged creatures.”
“You succeed,” I tell him honestly. “I’ve never felt more… seen than I do here.”
Something shifts in his expression. “That’s all we want for you, Emma. To feel seen and valued. To feel safe. To be happy.”
We reach the pumpkin patch, where families wander between rows of orange globes, searching for their perfect specimens. I raise my phone camera, capturing a father lifting his small daughter to reach a pumpkin, her face alight with joy.
“That’s the shot,” Rowan says, watching over my shoulder. “The one that captures what this place is about.”
I lower my phone, turning to look at him. “And what is this place about?”
“Family,” he says. “Creating memories that last. Giving people a place to belong, even for an afternoon.” His eyes meet mine. “Some for longer.”
“I should get some shots of the pumpkin patch before the light changes,” I say, standing perhaps a bit too quickly.
Rowan rises, too, his hand briefly touching the small of my back in a protective and possessive gesture.
I linger a moment and nod, making my way to the pumpkin patch. For the next hour, I lose myself in the work, capturing families selecting their perfect pumpkins, the late afternoon light gilding the orange globes with gold, children comparing their finds with proud expressions.
As the day ends, I relax into a rhythm I haven’t felt in months—perhaps years.
This work is joyful.
It documents moments of genuine happiness and creates an experience that people will remember.
And more than that, there’s a growing sense of belonging. With each interaction, I feel less like an outsider looking in and more like someone who has found her place.
22
Emma
Dusk is settling over the farm as I make my way toward the fire pit area near the edge of the apple orchard. The last visitors left hours ago, and the property has a different feel now—peaceful and intimate.
As I approach, I see the fire blazing, flames reaching the darkening sky. Around it, four Adirondack chairs have been arranged in a loose circle, close enough for conversation but with enough space between them that no one would feel crowded.
Theo spots me first, waving enthusiastically. “Perfect timing! I was just about to open the cider.”
As I draw closer, they’ve transformed the simple fire pit into something almost magical. String lights hang from the nearby trees, casting a warm glow that complements the fire. A small table holds an array of food—the promised ingredients for s’mores, cheese, crackers, fruit, and what appears to be a pot of mulled cider keeping warm over a portable burner.
“This is beautiful,” I say, impressed by the effort they’ve put into what was supposed to be a casual bonfire.
“Theo’s doing,” Rowan says, rising from his chair. His movement sends a wave of burnt sugar scent toward me, and my omega instincts respond with a flutter of warmth low in my belly. “He doesn’t believe in doing anything halfway.”
Theo grins proudly, not denying it. “Life’s too short for halfway experiences.” He hands me a mug of steaming cider that smells of cinnamon, cloves, and something more substantial. “Spiked with bourbon. Just enough to keep the autumn chill away.”
Our fingers brush during the exchange, and a tingle races up my arm. I have to suppress a small gasp at how intensely my body reacts to even this casual touch.
Liam, arranging wood near the fire, straightens and nods a greeting. The sight of him, all tall, broad-shouldered, and backlit by flames, makes my mouth dry and my heart beat faster.
“Sit,” Rowan says, gesturing to the empty chair between his and Theo’s. “Relax. Tonight is just about enjoying the season.”
I settle into the chair, cradling the warm mug between my hands. The fire crackles pleasantly, sending sparks spiraling upward into the darkening sky. Positioned between Rowan and Theo, with Liam directly across from me, I am surrounded by their scents—a heady combination that makes my skin prickle with awareness and dampness gather between my thighs.
For a while, conversation flows easily, light, casual topics about the farm, the successful opening weeks, and funny stories about particularly memorable visitors. Theo is in his element, animated and entertaining as he recounts the tale of a city couple who didn’t understand that the pumpkins grew on vines, not trees.
“They kept looking up,” he says, gesturing dramatically. “Searching the branches like they expected to see orange globes hanging there like Christmas ornaments. I didn’t have the heart to tell them to look down.”
I laugh, without restraint, and all three men watching me with expressions that make heat climb up my neck.
“Your turn,” Theo says, turning to me with bright eyes. “Best visitor story so far.”
I think for a moment, then share the story of a little girl who was convinced Maple was a princess under a curse. “She kept whispering to her that she knew the truth, and that she’d find a way to break the spell. Maple just kept eating her jacket.”
The guys laugh, and something warm blooms in my chest at the sound, at being the cause of it. Liam’s chuckle, Rowan’s deep rumble, Theo’s unreserved delight. Different notes that somehow harmonize perfectly. My omega preens at their approval, a purr building in my throat that I must swallow down.
As the evening progresses and the cider works its gentle magic, the conversation shifts to more personal territory. Refilling our mugs, Theo hesitates before speaking, his usual easy confidence momentarily subdued.
“You know, I almost didn’t come back to the farm after college,” he says, his voice quieter than usual. “I had a job offer in the city. Good money, a chance to see more of the world than just Autumn Falls.”
This is clearly news, though Rowan and Liam’s expressions suggest they’ve heard this story before. “What made you stay?” I ask, leaning slightly toward him without conscious thought, drawn to his spiced vanilla, the edges intensify, turning somewhat with his vulnerability.
Theo stares into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. “A lot of things. Family responsibility, partly—Rowan was already running things, but it’s a lot for one person. But mostly…” he trails off, searching for words. “I realized I was chasing something I thought I was supposed to want, not what actually made me happy.”
“And the farm makes you happy?” I ask, my hand moving of its own accord to rest lightly on his forearm.
He looks up. “The farm, sure. But honestly? It’s more about belonging somewhere, you know? Having a purpose, a place that’s mine. I would have been just another desk guy in a suit in the city. Here, I’m…” he gestures around, encompassing the farm, the fire, the three of us, “part of something real.”
His answer resonates deeply. My chest tightens with emotion, and I have to blink rapidly to keep unexpected tears at bay.
“It’s not always easy,” Theo continues, his smile returning but with a hint of wistfulness. “Small towns have long memories; sometimes it’s hard to outgrow who people think you are. The funny one, the charming one, who’s good with people but not the one in charge.” He glances at Rowan briefly. “But being seen clearly by the people who matter—that’s worth more than any corner office in the city.”
Rowan reaches over, briefly squeezing Theo’s shoulder, a gesture of understanding, of solidarity. Their casual intimacy twists something in my chest, a longing for that kind of unspoken connection. My omega whines softly inside me, wanting to be part of their easy affection, to be touched with that same certainty.
“My turn for confessions?” Rowan asks, his deep voice drawing our attention.
Theo grins, the moment of vulnerability passing. “Bare your soul, brother. It’s good for you.”
Rowan rolls his eyes, but there’s affection in the gesture. He takes a thoughtful sip of his cider before speaking. “When our parents retired, I was terrified,” he admits. “Not of the work—I’d been doing most of it anyway—but of failing. Of being the one who let the family legacy collapse.”
It’s hard to imagine Rowan, the confident, capable Rowan, afraid of anything. Yet there’s no artifice in his expression as he continues, my body leaning towards him instinctively as he speaks.
“The farm had been struggling for years. Traditional farming wasn’t profitable enough, not for a place this size. The autumn festival was helping, but it wasn’t enough. We needed to expand, adapt, and find new ways for this land to sustain us.” He looks around at the farm, his expression softening. “This place isn’t just crops and livestock. It’s generations of history, of lives lived close to the seasons… I couldn’t be the one to lose it.”
“You didn’t,” Liam says quietly. “You made it stronger.”
Rowan acknowledges this with a slight nod. “We did. Together.” He looks at me. “That’s why your work matters, Emma. It’s not just about social media or marketing. It’s about helping this place survive, adapt, continue.”
I had been thinking of my job as temporary, a means to an end—safety, anonymity, enough money to move on when necessary. But I’m part of something much more significant now.
“I understand. Thank you for trusting me with that responsibility.” My voice comes out huskier than intended, and Rowan’s nostrils flare slightly in response, his pupils dilating as he holds my gaze.
Liam has been quiet and adds another log to the fire, sending sparks swirling upward. In the flickering light, his profile is striking—strong jaw, straight nose, and the tension he usually carries in his shoulders is somewhat relaxed tonight. The play of light and shadow across his features makes my fingers itch to touch him and trace the contours of his face.
